On Forsyte ‘Change

Young Jolyon got off the arm of the chair, as if he were sensing his father’s abstraction.

“I think I’d better go and pack, Dad.”

“All right, my boy! I shall have a cigar.”

When the boy had gone—graceful little chap!—old Jolyon went to the Chinese tea chest where his cigars reposed, and took one out. He listened to it, clipped its end, lighted and placed it in his mouth. Drawing at the cigar, he took it out of his mouth again, held it away from him between two rather tapering-nailed fingers, and savoured with his nostrils the bluish smoke. Not a bad weed, but all the better for being smoked! Returning to his chair, he leaned back and crossed his legs. A long time since he’d thought of his mother. He could see her face still; yes, could just see it, the clear look up of her eyes from far back under the brows, the rather pointed chin; and he could hear her voice—pleasant, soft, refined. Which of them took after her? A

“What! You, Jo?” His face was very red, his eyelids puffed so that his eyes were hardly visible. He had made a queer motion with both hands and jerked his head towards the stairs.

“Go up,” he had said. “Your mother’s very bad. Go up, my boy; and whatever you do, don’t cry.”

He had gone up with a sort of sinking fear in his heart. His sister A

“Come in, Jo,” she had said; “Mother would like to see you. But, Jo—oh! Jo!” And he had seen two tears roll down her cheeks. The sight had impressed him terribly; A

IN MEMORY OF

ANN,

The Beloved Wife of

Jolyon Forsyte.

Born Feb. 1, 1780; Died April 16, 1821

A bright May day and no one in that crowded graveyard but himself.

Old Jolyon shifted in his chair; his cigar was out, his cheeks above those grizzling whiskers—indispensable to the sixties—had coloured suddenly, his eyes looked angrily from deep beneath his frowning brows, for he was suddenly in the grip of another memory—bitter, wrathful and ashamed—of only ten years back.

That was on a Spring day too, in 1851, the year after they had buried their father up at Highgate, thirty years after their mother’s death. That had put it into his mind, and he had gone down to Bosport for the first time since, travelling by train, in a Scotch cap. He had hardly known the place, so changed and spread. Having found the old parish church, he had made his way to the corner of the graveyard where she had been buried, and had stood aghast, rubbing his eyes. That corner was no longer there! The trees, the graves, all were gone. In place, a wall cut diagonally across, and beyond it ran the railway line. What in the name of God had they done with his mother’s grave? Frowning, he had searched, quartering the graveyard like a dog. At least, they had placed it somewhere else. But no—not a sign! And there had risen in him a revengeful anger shot through with a shame which heightened the passion in his blood. The Goths, the Vandals, the ruffians! His mother—her bones scattered—her name defaced—her rest a

“How long is it since they put that railway here?”

The old chap had paused, leaning on his spud.

“Ten year and more.”

“What did they do with the graves in that corner?”

“Ah! I never did ‘old with that.”

“What did they do with them? I asked you.”

“Why—just dug ’em up.”

“And the coffins?”

“I du

“They were not—one was my mother’s. 1821.”

“Ah! I mind—there was a newish stone.”

“What did they do with it?”

The old chap had gazed up at him, then, as if suddenly aware of the abnormal on the path before him:

“I b’lieve they couldn’t trace the owner—ax parson, ‘e may know.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Four year come Michaelmas. Old parson’s dead, but present parson ‘e may ‘ave some informashun.”

Like some beast deprived of his kill old Jolyon stood. Dead! That ruffian dead!

“Don’t you know what they did with the coffins—with the bones?”

“Couldn’ say—buried somewhere again, I suppose—maybe the doctors got some—couldn’ say. As I tell you. Vicar ‘e may know.”

And spitting on his hands he turned again to weeding.

The Vicar? He had been no good, had known nothing, or so he had said—no one had known! Liars—yes, liars—he didn’t believe a word of what they said. They hadn’t wanted to trace the owner, for fear of having a stopper put on them! Gone, dispersed—all but the entry of the burial! Over the ground where she had lain that railway sprawled, trains roared. And he, by one of those trains, had been forced to go back to that London which had enmeshed his heart and soul so that, as it were, he had betrayed her who had borne him! But who would have thought of such a thing? Sacred ground! Was nothing proof against the tide of Progress—not even the dead committed to the earth?